Cirrus@Austlit

'READER, I’VE TRIED. I’ve tried so hard not to begin this introduction by writing about my cats. But here I am, writing about my cats. I can’t stop myself.' (Introduction)

'AS I WRITE this, my dogs are curled up in the sun on the bench beside me. It’s winter in Brisbane, bright and cool, and the smaller of the two, Quito, is wearing a cable-knit jumper, startlingly pink like fairy floss. It has a turtleneck of sorts, and little holes for his front legs, and when I put it on him, it triggers a ‘cozy’ reaction, and he instantly runs to the nearest fluffy location and snuggles in. Today, he’s chosen a thick, round pillow on top of the thinner cushion topping the bench. The larger of my two dogs, Tukee, can’t seem to move when he’s got a jumper on, so he’s using Quito as a hot water bottle. I don’t blame him. I can’t quite feel the tips of my fingers, all too naked, as I type.' (Introduction)          

'THE SUN HAS just peeked above the cloudless horizon, but its golden light holds little warmth at this hour, at this time of year.' (Introduction)          

'MY SISTER REQUIRED a dummy to go to sleep at night, well into primary school. She clutched a scrap of tartan cloth – ‘Red Rugs’ – in one hand while sucking on ‘Num Nums’, until my mother resolved to enforce weaning. I, the younger sister, was proud not to have such a childish addiction. I rejected dummies and instead kept a toy rabbit as my night-time companion.' (Introduction)          

'ONE FRIDAY NIGHT not too long ago, at the end of a long, stressful week, my boyfriend and I found a perfect deep-winter piece of nothing on TV, a documentary that was mostly footage of sprightly little kittens and ostensibly about the wonders and enigmas of cats’ minds. We set ourselves up to watch it on the couch with our fifteen-year-old cat, Tigger, having lifted him onto the couch and done the rounds of smoothing and scratching that show him it’s appropriate to tuck in and settle down.' (Introduction)            

'THE GULLY IS sheathed in mist and the air is water. Our footsteps crack along the pathway, and my breath, muffled in the hood of the rain jacket I bought at Big W just two hours ago, is warm and loud. The cockatoos are screeching. At first, it’s a few flying overhead, but the deeper we go into the gully the louder they are and the more there are, until the sky is no longer grey and cloudy but a swirl of white and yellow. They scream and scream, calling to each other. They’re not like magpies, whose voices are melodious and rich, and yet today the screeching is like a balm. My senses tingle, and each call sends a shot of pleasure down my spine.' (Introduction)          

'For Pulitzer Prize-winning author and journalist Geraldine Brooks, history is rich with stories and characters that can illuminate the complexities of human experience. At the centre of her most recent novel, Horse, is a particularly famous four-legged figure: Lexington, the legendary American racehorse. But part of what led Brooks to this story – and the complex layers of injustice that lay beneath it – was her own late introduction to horseriding. In this conversation with Griffith Review Editor Carody Culver, Brooks shares the genesis and evolution of her relationship with man’s second-best friend.' (Publication abstract)